


Dear Bach,

by The_Mystical_Babs



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes (BBC Radio)
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-10 19:39:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12918867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Mystical_Babs/pseuds/The_Mystical_Babs
Summary: I literally wrote this because my friend wanted me to write an angsty Sherlock fanfic, so don’t judge if it’s bad- It’s John’s journal after Reichenbach





	Dear Bach,

Dear Bach,

       I don’t want to do this. I really don’t. But my therapist wants me to take my mind off of it and onto something else. She recommended a journal and told me “imagine as if you are writing to somebody”, so here it is. I’ve decided to write to Bach; that idiot would never stop playing him on that bloody violin of his. Again, I really don’t want to do this.

~John W.

 

Dear Bach,

       It’s been about a month since then. I’d like to say that I’ve moved on, but I just can’t. I want to believe that it was just a dream, and when I wake up we’ll be together again. I know he wasn’t a fake, so why did he tell me that. So why did he leave me? Why? Why? He was there one moment and gone the next. But whywas he gone the next? Moriarty is real. That was genuine fear I felt when I was hostage. That’s not something that can be emulated. Moriarty was real. His deductions were real. I saw it with my own two eyes. He is not a fake. I know he’s not.  ~~I know.~~ ~~~~I think he’s not. Is he, though? Was our entire friendship built off of a lie? No. That doesn’t make sense. I honestly don’t know what to believe anymore. This journal is starting to force me to remember instead of forget. Is that a good thing?

~John W.

 

Dear Bach,

       I’ve started to piece things together. Whether or not it’s accurate is yet to be determined. Whenever I ask anyone about him, they dodge the question. Molly, Mycroft, hell, even Mrs. Hudson. It’s almost as if they don’t care. They always say the same thing, “He’s gone to a better place” or, “It’s a tragedy, it truly is”, which never answers why he did it. Why did I have to see him dead like that? Why? Was that even him? Something is up and I’m being kept in the dark. Shouldn’t I have the right to know what’s going on?   Reaching for a kitchen knife or my pistol from my bureau has become a daily habit. I never actually do it, but the thought of taking my own life seems to not even be a thought anymore. It’s more of a mindset. It’s always there and I’ve learned to just deal with it. How did he do it so easily? How could he leave  ~~me~~ us like that?

~John W.

 

Dear Bach, 

       Suicide is not an option. What’s the point? It would only hurt others to be so selfish. He wouldn’t want me to anyway. ~~And maybe there’s a way he survived?~~ He’s dead. I saw him dead. No pulse. Blood everywhere. He had a goddamn headstone, for christ’s sake. He has to be dead. There’s no way that this is a trick. He’s not that cruel. But what if he was telling the truth? Was it all a big trick? If our entire relationship was fake, could he have faked his death? The media blew up with various theories, but that’s all they are. They’re theories. I want facts. This is probably his toughest case, and he’s not even solving it.

~John W.

 

Dear Bach,

       Lestrade wouldn’t show me the camera footage from in front of the building. “Sensitive, classified material” he says. Classified my arse. He’s my friend and I need to know. I can handle watching him fall to concrete for a second time. I’ve seen worse. I’ve seen worse. Jesus Christ, I haven’t seen worse. I’ve seen limbs blown off, tanks running over people, and more suicides due to pressure than there are people on this street, but I have not seen worse. This is the worst. He was my friend. Or was it all a trick?

~John W.

 

Dear Bach,

       I stopped seeing my therapist. I thought that see was a bit dotty. Though, I will keep writing here. It helps me clear my head and vent. I’ve gotten into online dating, though the majority of people there are interesting, in the worst sense of the word. There was one or two that seemed pleasant. I’ll be meeting one of them next week, I believe her name is Mary. She seemed nice and that she was trying to forget her past, like me. I didn’t pressure her into telling me and she did the same. We’ll be meeting at a restaurant around the corner from my flat. I hope this will be a good change of pace, unlike my usual moping around. I hope this will be a step in the right direction.

~John W.                                      

  

Dear Bach, 

       It was a disaster. All was well in the beginning. She was pretty and polite, quite lovely, actually. Then there was the man. As we were leaving the restaurant, some guy yelled out something (Rosamund?) and she broke out in a run. We hid behind a foul smelling skip in the alley and she pulled out a gun that she had concealed by her shawl. She shot in the direction of the voice and we heard a wail. We ran towards Speedy’s, and once we stopped, I demanded answers. ”I don’t think this will work.” That didn’t answer anything, but I don’t actually care. I agreed and that was that. I’m done with online dating. When will I meet a normal person with a normal life?

~John W.

 

Dear Bach, 

       Mrs Hudson came in today, wondering if I was okay. Did she hear about the failed date? I obviously said fine because I didn’t wasn’t her to worry, but I wasn’t fine. Once she left, I looked through some boxes that were full of crap from previous cases. They were all in there. All of the notes and memories- memories of him. I definitely tossed around the idea of throwing everything into the fireplace, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I couldn’t leave all of those memories to burn. My mind is in shambles. I don’t know what day is today or if I even ate today. Is this what he wanted? For me to suffer?

~John W.

 

Dear Bach, 

       I’m so tired. I’m tired of life. I’m tired of searching for answers, but I won’t stop. I need to know the truth. I need to know what happened. I honestly forgot when he died, but it seemed like it happened years ago. He’s dead. I know it. There’s no other option. He has to be dead. Moriarty’s also dead, so I can’t ask him. I feel like my entire world is breaking apart. Lestrade and Molly sometimes come over, but they don’t help. They’re just reminders. I need to leave this place. I can feel his ghost looming over me everywhere in this place. I’ll go look for another flat tomorrow.

~John W.

 

Dear Bach,

       When I told Mrs Hudson they I was leaving, she broke down in tears. I was reluctant, but I had to leave. I couldn’t bear living inside the same four walls with reminders of him everywhere. There were plenty of adverts in the newspaper for houses, but I chose the cheapest option. A £700pm flat on the outskirts of town. It was small and only had one bedroom, but that was fine. I didn’t mind that it was a bit crappy either. I feel like this is the new start I need.

~John W.

 

Dear Bach,

       I got rid of my mobile. There were too many people trying to contact me. Too many reminders. My little dump is what I now call home. I barely even noticed that there was no hot water or air conditioning. There were multiple newspapers that I only noticed when I stepped outside. There was seven total, so I guess I’ve been here for a week already. My army salary won’t last me long, so I should get a job. I should go out more. When I looked in the mirror, a stranger was looking back. A thin, pale, and sickly stranger. I need to shave. He always preferred when I had no facial hair. 

~John W.

 

Dear Bach,

       I got a nighttime job at a local grocery store. It just gives me enough for rent, food, and other bill. Is it boring? Excruciatingly, but it gets my mind off of things. During the day is when I do research. I barely sleep three hours on a good day, but that gives me more time to think and theorise about what happened. I’ve filled up so many books with notes of what I think happened, that my flat looks like all hell broke loose. I’ve figured out a few things, but not the big one. Why? Why did he jump? Why did he lie? Did he lie about lying? Why is Moriarty dead?Why did he die? Why did he leave me?

~John W.

 

Dear Bach,

       He’s dead. There’s nothing I can do about it. I haven’t felt this helpless in what seems like forever. But I push that feeling aside. I’m a soldier.  ~~I’m used to it.~~ I’m not used to it. You can never get used to it. How long has it been? Months? Years? Or was it only last week? I can’t remember. I have little social contact, unless you count the awkward silence between coworkers at night. Should I pop in and give Mrs Hudson a visit? No. That would break her heart even further, and I told myself: no more reminders. I guess it’s ironic. I’m writing in here and searching for answers, yet I want no memories of him. It’s actually kind of funny. Just how mad have I become?

~John W.

 

Dear Bach,

       Oh, how I long to solve a case. I’m only a doctor, but they were kind of fun. Or maybe it was only because he was there? I don’t know. I reread a few of my blogs, for what seemed to be the hundredth time, trying to remember the excitement. When I read them, I found them all bland. None of them were exciting. None of them had that spark that was given off when we solved them. Quite frankly, they were all stupid. The reason for all of the deaths were stupid. In the heat of the moment, I found them fascinating. Again, they only serve as reminders. Why did so many people eat this crap up?

~John W.

 

Dear Bach,

       I saw Molly today. It was completely out of the blue and she was freaking out. I was walking home from work and all I heard was “Dr Watson, stop right there”. I didn’t hurt her, but I did shake her up a bit. Once I pinned her down in an alley, I told her to leave and never call my name again. She ran off and I realized that was the most fun I’ve had in a while. I hope that she didn’t call anyone and make Lestrade at my doorstep tomorrow. I just want to sink into obscurity, living my own life.

~John W.

 

Dear Bach,

       He’s still alive. Well, that’s what all of the newspapers are saying. There are multiple theories of how he cheated death. I never realised how much of a national icon he was. The people in the papers don’t have the entire story. Hell, even I don’t have the full story and I  ~~am~~   ~~~~was his best friend. Is this one of Moriarty’s schemes? Or is this punishment for something I’m not aware of? Or was he speaking the truth? He needs to be dead. If he’s not, he definitely will be after pulling a trick like that. I feel like I’m going numb. He’s all I ever think about and I can’t really feel anything other than anger. I’m angry that he left. I’m angry for not being able to save him. I’m angry for being a coward.

~John W.

 

Dear Bach,

       For argument’s sake, let’s say he’s alive. What would draw him in? A case. That’s not an experiment I’m willing to try. That’s crossing the line. Killing another for the sake of him coming back. And that’s if he’s alive. He probably could have easily faked his death, but that’s not a chance I’ll take. But the pistol is weightless in my hands, almost as if it wouldn’t be a heavy burden. That it’s the correct option.  ~~Is it?~~ It’s not the correct option. No sane person would do this. But am I considered sane? I thought that pinning down a  ~~friend~~ acquaintance in an alleyway fun. Would this be a stretch?

~John W.

 

Dear Bach,

       I’ve decided against it. I just can’t take another life. I feel like my life is like sand. Whenever I try to get a firm grip, it falls through the cracks. I’m trying so hard to forget, but I keep forcing myself to remember it more and more. I barely eat. I barely sleep. I feel like it’s too late to turn back. It’s too late to turn back and the only way to get answers is to ask him personally, but how? Is there a chance that he’s atill alive? A chance that he tricked us all? A chance that none of this is real? That I’m asleep and this is just a nightmare? A chance that he actually cares about me? I don’t care if he was a fake, he was my best friend. I would do anything to bring him back. Anything? No.  ~~~~Almost anything.

~John W.

 

Dear Bach,

       I had such a vivid dream. He was still alive and we solved cases like old times. I wanted to believe that that was reality. That what I’m living is the dream. But he’s gone. There’s nothing I can do. I’m powerless. I went back to the pistol and loadeded. I undid the safety and nearly did it. I couldn’t. I couldn’t take it anymore, but I couldn’t pull the trigger. It’s nearing winter, so the days are getting shorter. Less and less people are going out after it’s dark. I think I’ll take a walk.

~John W.

 

Dear Bach,

       I did it. I shouldn’t have brought my pistol. Why did I do it? Why did no one stop me?  ~~Why did he leave me?~~ What’s done is done, but finally using the gun almost felt, exciting? I feel like I secretly wanted to test my theory and that’s why I brought it along. The worst part about it is the guilt. Or lack thereof. I don’t feel sorry. Why? Why don’t I break down in guilt after commiting such a horrible act? I honestly don’t know. Other than that initial adrenaline rush, I didn’t feel anything. What pushed me over the edge? How could I even think of doing a thing like that, let alone go through with it? Is this my way of trying to forget? Or is this my way of holding on?

~John W.

 

Dear Bach,

       I go on with my day as usual, which consists of reading through multiple cases we solved together. I try to find any hint, any clue, that points to his final act. Any signs of lying. Anything. As per usual, I find nothing. I read the newspaper and find that what I did was in it. “Full clip unloaded into her body from impressive distance. Report strange and dangerous persons”. I didn’t find the distance that impressive, just the media fluffing up the report. I was lucky to even hit her, I was so out of practice. This got me thinking: what’s a fun case, according to him? A serial killer. I’m already this far down the hole, what’s stopping me now?

~John W.

 

Dear Bach,

       I did it again. And again and again and again. They surprisingly haven’t caught me yet.  ~~They probably would have already if he was there.~~ This is clearly getting me nowhere. Does that mean that he  is dead? Is he back at Baker St.? Was there a point to all of this in the first place? There have been so many police sirens up and down this street that it’s hard to sleep, even if I’m tired. I haven’t worked for the past few days due to the killings being right by it. I’ll probably stop bringing my pistol on walks because if it hasn’t worked by now, there’s no point. I might head back to Baker St. tomorrow and see if anything changed. Maybe I should bring my gun by there for one last time, just to see if that changes anything.

~John W.

 

Dear Bach, 

       I walked up and down Baker St. and stayed at Speedy’s for a few hours, though it only seemed like a minute. There weren’t many people out, especially walking because it was -20° out and there was snow coating everything. Despite the cold, I actually felt warm. Mrs Hudson probably didn’t see me or else she would have bursted through the doors to yell at me. I heard muffled songs and church bells everywhere. Was it already Christmas? I never noticed. I hoped that it worked. I need it to work. I think I might come back tomorrow to check up here. Should I stay for a bit? I did bring my pistol.

~John W.

 

Dear Bach,

       I did it by Baker St.. A few times actually and I hope this’ll cause more interest. But the police are dolts. Were there seriously no witnesses for any of them? Did no one hear the shots? I went back to the flat and just waited. Not for anything in particular, but just waited. I’ve dug myself a hole that’s impossible to escape from. If he is alive, what would happen? He’d probably figure out that I did it almost immediately, so what’s the point? Do I just want to make sure that he’s alive? I still don’t even know why any of this happened in the first place. I feel like there was no point to any of this. That I committed all of these cruel acts for an ending that’s not conclusive. I hope that he’s alive. No, I know that he is alive. That’s the only option now that I’ve gotten this far.

~John W.

 

Dear Bach,

       He’s alive. I saw him at Baker St. he seemed panicked. Was it because of me? Does he know what I did? I feel all of my emotions rush back to me in one giant wave. All of that guilt. There’s too much coming at once. I feel sick. I can’t live with this. I just can’t. This is completely different from the war. The killing there was for our lives. This was just inhumane. I ~~was~~ am selfish. I got him back, now what? Do I casually go up to him and ignore everything that’s happened? Go back to old times? No. It’s too late. I can’t do it. It’s impossible.

~John W.

 

Dear ~~Bach~~ Him,

     I can’t go on. There’s just too much guilt. I wish things turned out differently, I really do, but I just can’t. I still haven’t gotten any answers, though I guess you never get everything you want in the end. I suppose that you’ll find this sooner or later, with your mad deduction skills and whatnot, but I actually hope you don’t. There’s too much pain written here that I don’t want you to know about. Too much guilt. I feel like this is the best choice for everyone.

Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes

~John W.


End file.
